Someone to Watch Over Me
by AnJL
Summary: Dunno if it's been worth waiting for. The Chloefic, backstory to 'Bedtime Story' and 'Nighthawks'.
1. Pictures of You

~Disclaimer; you know it. I know it. So not mine...~  
  
~What Chloe did during 'Nighthawks'. The middle-eight to 'Bedtime Story'. I don't do songfics, but rather a lot of David Gray was playing while I wrote this.~  
  
Someone to Watch Over Me  
  
  
1.Pictures of You  
  
With the whole world to choose from, I found myself heading for this cold, damp, small country. There are places that I want to see, but I don't want to see them alone. And I am alone.   
  
I wasn't always. Back home, I left a man. I needed to find my feet, find out who I was. And he withdrew, didn't try and dissuade me. We had drifted, couldn't find a way back. Somehow, we ended up saying good-bye, and I flew away.  
  
~picture 1# a young woman sits at table, looking a little small and lost. an airport? somewhere busy. she has a guide-book in one hand, a cardboard cup in the other.~  
  
Our first fight.  
  
"I -can't- take the LNN job. I'll never know if I got it as Lex Luthor's girlfriend or not."  
  
Now Lex thinks I'm ashamed of him. Can't explain to him that I feel my identity has been swallowed up in his.  
  
Dream job...on the other side of the world. Overseas desk of the Planet, in London. Life sucks. But Lex has been so quiet lately.  
  
What did I expect him to do? Beg me not to go? Say something, at least. Instead, his face closes in on itself, in a way it hasn't done for years.  
  
"You can't turn this down." Looks into my eyes. "Take it. I'm happy for you." And that is the only time he's ever lied to me.  
  
Patch the fight. There's a desperation to his love-making that is so unlike the tender Lex that I know. And in the morning, he's already gone to work.  
  
I'm set to drive to the air-port, when the car screeches up. We barely say two dozen words to each other. And when I look back from the gate, he's already walking for the car-park.  
  
It wasn't until I landed that I found that I had lost the little ring that he gave me. It wasn't an engagement ring, just a little worn silver band that we found in a second-hand store one weekend. I loved it nearly as much as I loved him. I tore the room apart looking for it, and then when I realised that it had gone, I cried for about three hours.  
  
Days pass, and it goes beyond the point where we can call each other.  
  
***  
  
~picture 2# intent at a screen, busy office around her.~  
  
~picture 3# buying a magazine from a kiosk. anonymous glass and steel of the docklands behind her.~  
  
~picture 4# in a bookshop, browsing in the crime fiction.~  
  
~picture 5# walking along a street, looking up at a big gothic building, instantly recognisable from newscasts, clock-tower and all.~  
  
~picture 6# being a tourist at the tower of london. freaked out by a raven.~  
  
Ravens were the messengers of the Norse god, Odin. Thought and Memory, who flew the world to bring him news. I wonder if news of me ever makes its way back to that office? I suspect so.  
  
I don't know what makes me think this. Paranoia? Or knowing him as I do?  
  
I love Charing Cross Road. All the bookshops. And Covent Garden. And Leicester Square...  
  
***  
~picture 7# spinning round on the top of primrose hill, arms outstretched, with the london skyline behind her. silly woman.~  
  
Spinning round on top of the highest ground I can find. I miss the open sky of home. Everything here is on a smaller scale, fields, buildings, even the sky. Five t.v channels, and paying for your local calls. They drive on the wrong side of the road, the beer tastes wrong, and it never seems to stop raining. Their sports are bizarre - cricket? Yet, somehow, I like it. One little anonymous American.  
  
***  
  
Another clipping for the wall; "A breakthrough in nerve regeneration technology at Cadmus - Dr Bernard Klein had this to say to reporters today..."   
  
Not quite the Wall of Weird. I tell myself it's because my Dad is Regional Executive for the Mid-West. All sorts of clippings - medical research, financial reports, a few society pieces. Pieces of home, pulled out of newspapers and magazines, covering the old paint of my living-room wall. Letters up there, too, and photos, and postcards from round the world. (One from Whitney, of all people, who ran into Clark in some out of the way spot.) Clark outside some office block, somewhere hot - he's been world-hopping, working on different papers, building up a portfolio. A letter with this one - been taught to dance properly, now, so he doesn't look 'like a frog on a hotplate' anymore.  
  
I used to find that telescope of Clark's creepy. Lana going about her life with his eyes on her. Then we had the whole spycam horror. This isn't tacky or intrusive, just a suspicion. A hope.  
  
~picture 8# staring up at the stars out of her window, smiling softly.~  
  
It becomes a game.   
  
Looking out into the night. Smile at the sky. Blow a kiss to the stars. Just in case.   
  
***  
~picture 9# the underground, stalking through the crowds like a small menacing bat.~  
  
A picture in a magazine from home - two rich socialites at a charity function. Little gossipy piece on who was seeing who, speculation on who would get diamonds soon. I buy the magazine, simply so that I can amuse myself by defacing said picture. Leave the ripped up pieces in a bin.  
  
I hate the Underground. I am in no mood to be messed about tonight. When the man grabs my bag, I react on instinct. Shriek abuse at him so loudly that he stops in surprise, and I grab my property back, stalk off before my brain catches up with what I just did.  
  
***  
  
Mad frenzy of destruction - every picture down off the wall. Time to move on with my life.  
  
Possessive bastard. Just because he couldn't control me...  
  
***  
  
~ picture 10# coming out of the cinema, arm in arm with a man. (this photo is rather creased, as if it had been gripped violently.)~  
  
~picture 11# (held together with tape.) kissing in a doorway.~ 


	2. Interlude: Wreckage

~Lex swears a lot when he's drunk. So do I. Whiskey does that. ~  
  
Interlude: Wreckage  
  
Late at night. High above the city. The weather is perfect, the edges of a storm gusting in, clouds racing over the moon. One lonely millionaire, tanked to the eyeballs, screaming at the sky from his penthouse terrace. Hurling the empty bottle up.  
  
Someone catches it. Only one person that could do that. I try and focus, as they descend slowly onto the terrace. Stagger back inside, because he won't let me throw anything off the balcony. Even myself, should it come to that. Much more comfortable to sit on the floor. My hand hurts.  
  
Wants to know what's wrong. Hah. What's wrong is that I've got the biggest fucking office in Metropolis. Biggest company - did it all myself. And it means shit. Too much in my vision - fucking boy scout. He's prying my fingers open, and if I try and stop him, he'll probably break them. Broke my father, but we don't talk about that, do we? Don't talk about things that might be trouble. I keep your secrets, and you keep mine, because who would like to know that the city's richest man is curled up in a pathetic heap in his empty apartment. He's seen the photos. Did he really think I could just let her go? And now, I have to. All I have left. A handful of fucking paper. And the ring.  
  
If I asked, he could throw it into the sun for me. That would be a fitting end. Little thing. Silver. Found it in a small shop, can't remember the name, somewhere past the University. Just browsing, and there it was. Squint at it, you can make out roses. My girl likes roses. Used to like me. Now I've got this fucking picture of her with this fucking asshole British bastard. Fuck.  
  
I don't have faith in anything. I wanted to believe that she would come back to me. But why should she? We had some great times together, but I was all busy building my company. Pissing on my father. Had to be bigger and better, and turned out just the same, didn't I? Women leave you. Die or fly away.   
  
He doesn't know how much fucking self-control it takes not to phone her. Not to beg. Not to drop everything and fly after her. Because the planes go over this city EVERY FUCKING DAY. If I do that, I'll never know if she would have come back...I know what I mean. Got to be her choice. Except she's made a choice.   
  
Shit. I'm a mess. What happened to me? I let myself love somebody. Contrary to popular belief, Lex Luthor does have a heart. It's lying in little pieces round his feet.  
  
This can't be happening. Please. 


	3. Wishing (I had a photograph of you)

Wishing (I had a photograph of you)  
  
Rob was very sweet. He's a lovely man, like a big dog. Gentle and considerate. Nothing dark or dangerous about him. And it just felt - wrong. Not lean hard muscle, not the confidence I learnt to take for granted. He doesn't set fire to my blood when he kisses me. I feel so guilty, push him away. See the dumb hurt in his eyes as I let him out the door, remember that look at the airport, covered up so quickly with a look of cool indifference.  
  
~picture 12# seasons have changed in the background. some time has passed. she's walking through fallen leaves in a park, on her own. she doesn't look sad, just pensive.~  
  
On my own again. Walking through the drifts of leaves. Looking up at a sky the exact colour of His eyes. He has acquired an intermittent capital in my mind - so much easier than saying his name. I miss him. I'm remembering so many things - not just the quick lunches snatched between meetings and lectures, but the fact that he would come across town for those half hours.   
  
The day feels a lot colder. I turn for home. Miss the crisp air, the different smell. Brits can't do Hallowe'en.  
  
Saw Rob again at a party - he still doesn't understand, thinks he did something wrong, pushed me too fast. It really wasn't him. We're still part of the same group, people juggling schedules so we don't meet that often. I'm on my own again for a while, as they knew him first, before they adjust. It doesn't get cold here, the way it does at home. No real snow. Another memory -trying to teach me to ski. I always felt that there was nothing that I could teach him. Why would he bother with a smalltown girl? And he would tell me not to be stupid. Too many arguments solved in bed, without talking it over. I never saw that it was normality that I gave him - the money and power got in the way, just in a different way.   
  
The sports are different, too. Have to hunt around the late night schedules for imported hockey. Remember learning some new words from Mitch in NY - Polish is a great language for abuse.  
  
Clark's first by-line at the 'Daily Planet' - and he got himself a new writing partner. For a long time I dreamt it might be Sullivan and Kent, but that dream gradually went. I will always be Sullivan. I don't need a partner. Not in my work. Even working for the 'Planet' doesn't have the same ring that it used to - going back to the city may no longer be an option. It could hurt too much. I have the whole world to choose from.   
  
I miss the big skies of home. I miss watching the Metropolis Rangers. I miss knowing that somewhere someone will occasionally look up from his laptop and grab his jacket because it's lunchtime, and he promised.  
  
***  
  
Sitting in a pub, watching a big screen game interrupted by a newscast, footage of a holed tanker being pulled up out of the water by a little red and blue figure. Exclusive t.v interview with the Man of Steel. I see the face above the costume, turn his name into a strangled shriek. Search for a phone - damn the expense.  
  
"Okay. Spill." I'm sitting in another pub, and Clark is experiencing British beer. "It would explain the exclusives. Who knows?"  
  
"Er...only my parents."  
  
"And Lex?" It's the first time I've said His name aloud for nearly a year.  
  
"Probably. He knows most things." He gives me a quick look. "He still misses you."  
  
"Could have fooled me." I stab my finger at the trashy magazine. Smarmy society get-together, one distinctive figure hung about with yet another Jet-Set Barbie.   
  
"He does miss you. Went on a three-day bender after you left."  
  
"Clark, every time I open one of these magazines, he's got another girl on his arm."  
  
"But he never takes any of them home." he says quietly.   
  
Have I misjudged him? Unlikely. He never struck me as a man who would stay celibate. If he did, then...I would have to re-evaluate.  
  
"Don't try changing the subject. When? I can see why." I grin. "I like the emblem - I always knew you were jealous of those Crows jackets."  
  
"Oh, please." But he flushes along the cheek-bones. Not grown out of that habit yet, then. The glasses are new, though. Suit him, and make his face a different shape. We talk work - photographers, deadlines, editors. He very carefully doesn't mention his writing partner, which I recognise as a very Clark sign. He asks if I'm seeing anyone, and then I know. And he knows that I know. So I tell him the truth - there could have been someone, but there isn't any longer. Clark understands how to put the pieces together, gives the magazine under my hand a long look.  
  
"Chloe...you should know better than to believe the Press."  
  
Not going there. Need to think about this.  
  
He looks at his watch.  
  
"Lunch break's over. I have to be back in the office in half an hour."  
  
I blink. That statement takes a bit of processing. As he gets up to go, he says,  
  
"He still wears your ring on a chain round his neck. Never takes it off."  
  
Store that away. My ring. Not lost, but...treasured? 


	4. Interlude: Pressgang

Interlude: Press Gang  
  
  
CLARK  
  
Lex has retreated so far back into his shell that I'm scared for him. Leave Lois in the office with an excuse about the dentist. Dither over the North Sea, because I don't know what to say.  
  
I need to talk to Mom.  
  
MARTHA  
  
I wasn't expecting Clark home until the weekend. But heavy thump on the porch can only be one person.  
  
He looks a little freaked. I wonder if he's come to talk about Lois - he thinks that Jonathan and I haven't worked that one out yet. But it's Lex he's worried about. So am I. I saw him on a news program a while back, and he looked like he did when he was fighting for the plant a few years back. He misses Chloe so much.   
  
But Clark can't get involved. It has to be Chloe's decision.   
  
Show Clark that irresponsible article in the Metropolis Journal. He takes off with a sonic boom that shakes the windows.  
  
CLARK  
  
Lex Luthor finally grants an interview to the 'Daily Planet', but only if Lane and Kent do it. Lois is furious at being out-manoeuvred by a farmboy. Wants to know what my personal pull is. I wouldn't do it, but he won't return my calls.  
  
LOIS  
  
My first thought is, he's young. Then that he looks desperately tired. A very charming smile as he shakes hands.  
  
"Miss Lane..." (pause) "Mr Kent."  
  
"Mr Luthor." Clark shakes hands, but he's glaring. They -know-each other. How does a Kansas hick, even a cute one, know the richest man in Metropolis? This will need investigating. Lex Luthor is smirking.  
  
"I'm always happy to meet the Press."  
  
"Close working relationship?"  
  
The smirk snaps off.  
  
They goad each other throughout the interview. I'm not sure how, but I can feel it. Halfway through, his intercom buzzes.  
  
"A call from London?" Just a slight change of tone, but it sets off every instinct. Clark's head whips up, and his eyes narrow. "Mr Morrison - tell him I will call back in an hour." Not who Mr Luthor was expecting? Because his face and voice don't change at all, but his eyes are empty.  
  
Young, good-looking, clever and charming. Yet he's as empty as his office - I don't think we met the real Lex Luthor at all. He's adept at heading off anything remotely personal. All our questions have been screened.  
  
Then Clark veers right off track.  
  
"Would you care to comment on the story of your prospective engagement as reported in the Metropolis Journal?"  
  
We have expression. Half a second of total horror, gone so quickly that I might have imagined it.   
  
"Complete fabrication." he says.   
  
They look at each other, and something is definitely going on here. Clark nods.  
  
"Thank you for your time, Mr Luthor."  
  
"Call me Lex." He holds out his hand. "Thank you, Mr Kent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to."  
  
And although it's said in a perfectly friendly tone, I go absolutely cold. 


	5. Life Thru a Lens

3.Life Thru a Lens  
  
The Metropolis Journal has gone into liquidation. Hostile takeover from the LNN group. Total scorched earth. Good.  
  
Christmas on my own. First one ever, and it's hard. I know who I am, now. What I want. And that I may have lost it forever.  
  
Pictures in front of me. My photographs. Travelling back through time.  
  
Pete and Lana's wedding! How weird was that? Clark and I talking to each other. Clark was best man. I was there on my own, and it felt very strange - first event in a long time without a partner, even one that had to keep diving off with his cell-phone. Once you work for yourself, you never really stop working. And if several thousand people depend on you for their jobs, you can't just blow them off.  
  
New York. Interning at a paper there. My backroom boys at the paper, messing with their gizmos and gadgets, uplink cables and e-sat feeds. Dave, Mitch and Peter. That was an interesting time.   
  
Gotham. Scary place. Everyone I met there seemed to be a basket-case. Which was why I decided to take up the internship in the Big Apple instead.  
  
Met. U. - that was a time. My flatmate, looking a bit stunned still - she's just been introduced to 'Alex', found out who my 'rich boyfriend back home' really is. Difficult to go out anywhere together, just as it had always been. More work, more meetings, with the company starting to take off. The odd weekend back out of the city. Pictures of me hanging out with my course buddies, being Chloe, instead of the weird chick from the paper, the one dating the local Prince of Darkness. Me looking like Annie Hall on roller-blades, flailing through a park. Really stupid picture from a costume party - Catwoman and Darth Maul. Graduation. Me and Clark.  
  
Back further now, and we're back into hometown days. Prom. Clark, grinning at the camera, proud of his new tux and oblivious to the fact that the straight-faced millionaire beside him has put two fingers behind his head. Borrowing the limo. Pete and Lana. The 'three amigos' arm in arm. And - I'd forgotten this one, don't know who took it. We're standing together, slow-dancing on the steps, not laughing but staring into each other's eyes. Nobody else in the world existed. He'd come tearing back at midnight from some meeting, because he had promised me the last dance. And I'd waited for him, because I knew that he would come. So sure of each other, then.   
  
Sharp jab of memory. I need to go home.  
  
***  
  
~picture13# at the airport, looking up at the departures board.~  
  
~picture 14# looking back over her shoulder, and waving, grinning at no-one in particular.~  
  
***  
  
My face reflected in the window, against the night. Do I look different now? Has a year changed me? I got and held down a job, paid my own rent, made some friends, all as myself. And now I'm going back. Will there be something to go back to?   
  
Face up to it, Sullivan. This is not a man you will ever get over.  
  
***  
  
I drive back through the quiet little town where I grew up. The place that became home. Up a road at once familiar and unknown.  
  
Still the same old gothic pile - same code on the gate - same light burning in a window, because -normal- people might need to sleep, but... Know that he knows I'm here, walk under the eye of the hidden cameras, but I know about these - flashback to a long time past and a shudder - push open the door.   
  
He's sitting at the desk, doing an excellent job of nonchalance.   
  
"You are the most possessive boyfriend in the world." I say. And realise that I've given myself away, even more than just being here. I'm not mad - I thought I would be. Instead I just feel safe, home.  
  
He gets up, comes round the desk, stands in front of me, silent, with a question in his eyes. Slowly, I put out my hand, slip inside his shirt. The old private gesture. Close my fingers on the chain, pull the ring into the half-light.  
  
"I thought you might have outgrown...it."  
  
"No."   
  
He fumbles the catch, lets the chain fall to the floor. I hold out my left hand, fingers spread, and he slips the ring onto my finger. Back where it belongs.  
  
***  
  
Tomorrow we can talk, catch up, decide where we go from here. For now, I prop on an elbow, watch over him sleeping.  
  
It's the least I can do.  
  
  
  
***  
  
Next Up -   
  
Smallville Ledger  
  
Mr. Gabriel Sullivan is pleased to announce the engagement of his daughter Chloe to Alexander Joseph Luthor, son of Lionel Luthor.  
  
The wedding will take place at Luthor Hall. 


End file.
